Chelsea Hotel 2
by evilwomyn
Summary: Inspired by Leonard Cohen's "Chelsea Hotel #2" and set two years after Andrea leaves Miranda in Paris, Miranda finds herself lonely and longing for love. A chance encounter reunites her with her former assistant, but will it make up for her guilty conscience? One-shot, Mirandy (obvs!)


**Summary**: In Miranda's point of view and set two years after Andrea leaves _Runway_, Miranda has blacklisted Andrea and the only work the young woman can find is in the sex work industry. Yes, our darling Andrea is a prostitute. Miranda has grown slightly soft in her old age, and after not being "sexually pleased" in two years, she seeks the services of a prostitute, without realising that her call-girl is actually Andrea. Also, Andrea is slightly OOC in this but I guess she has a right to be a little bitter, yeah?

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Devil Wears Prada OR Leonard Cohen. Damn.

**Author's Note**: Hello everyone! Long time no write, I know. This is just a little something that came to mind when I was going through post-University blues and listening to Leonard Cohen and doing shitty watercolour paintings and downing 10 cups of black coffee a day. Wow I'm such a hipster. Anyway. Please take note that this fic has no happy ending! Please don't forget to R&R. Love to love xx

* * *

I sit in silence as I absent-mindedly watch people scurry around the busy streets of New York below my room's window at the Chelsea Hotel. I long for a life. A life of anonymity, and perhaps, ambiguity. What I would give to walk down the street and hold hands with someone I love without _being looked at_... Although love is an entirely different matter. Who in the world would love such a fire-breathing dragon like me?

I'm mesmerized by the droplets of rain that form patterns on the glass before they tickle down and pool together in the windowsill. I've been waiting here, patiently, for half an hour. Although I was 38 minutes early, I have been rather eager to get this over and done with all day. The truth is, you see, I haven't been..._pleased_...in over a year. Not since that night in Paris, when Stephen called and Andrea left. And although people constantly surround me, the truth is that I have never felt more alone in my entire life _since that night_. Many times I have attempted to take matters into my own hands, but it never feels the same. I can only love myself so much before I start to take my self reassurance for granted and realise that I have been fooling myself into believing that I'm worthy of love all along.

I feel my heart beat faster as I hear the handle of the door behind me turn. She is dressed in a black leather coat and her chestnut hair cascades over her shoulders. I've seen her before, and only when she turns around and looks at me fully do I realise whom she is.

"Andrea."

She looks at me and her eyes narrow into a glare, and I can tell she is about to turn and leave. Again. "Please, don't go."

Her large lips form a thin line of disdain as she regards me with a look I can only liken to hatred. She fiddles with the knot that holds her coat together and the piece of fabric falls to the floor. She stands in front of me, her body now clad in lacy, bright red undergarments. The sudden urge to reach out and touch her consumes me.

"Usually I prefer handsome men." Andrea says, and her voice is so brave and sweet that I am nearly misled into thinking that she is as courageous as she appears to be. "But for you I'll make an exception."

"Andrea." I feel my breath catch in my throat as she steps closer to me and lowers the straps of her brassiere with her thumbs. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to please you." She climbs onto the bed lowers herself into a rather provocative kneeling position before leaning forward on the palms of her hands and giving me the same look that she gave me before. Her deep, brown eyes are filled with so much hatred and I can only try to keep the tears in my eyes from falling.

"No." I step over to the bed so that I am in reaching distance and my motherly instincts take over. I adjust the lacy straps of her brassiere and she looks at me, confused now, before taking a seated position on the bed. I follow suit. "Surely you remember how I hate to repeat myself. _What are you doing here_?"

Andrea shrugs. "This is what I do now."

"You're a whore?"

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. "And you're someone who requires the services of a whore?" She certainly is bolder than I recall.

"I have been...lonely." That's the best excuse I could think of?

"And you think that sex equals happiness?" She is smarter than I recall, too.

"No one has touched me in the last two years."

Andrea shifts closer to me and places her slender arm over my shoulder. She leans in and pulls my head downward so that if I release my tongue from my mouth even slightly, I could lick her décolletage. Yet I resist.

"Then let me do my job." She purrs as she thrusts her bosom closer to my face. I fight every urge I have to nuzzle closer as I take in a deep breath and sit back and stand up and away from the bed and from Andrea.

"I can't do this. Not with you."

Andrea cowers and turns away from me as if I have insulted here.

"Oh, no, Andrea I meant I can't do this because I need to know why you're..."

"A whore?"

I sit back down on the bed next to her and take her hand in mine. "Please tell me." The combination of old age and lack of sexual stimulation must have somehow softened me.

"It doesn't matter." Andrea's voice resembled a growl as she grasped my shoulders and pushed me back onto the bed. She reaches behind her back and retrieves a pair of handcuffs, which I assume were attached to her underwear. In one swift move she has me cuffed to the bedposts, and she glares at me as I try to wriggle out of my current position.

"Don't you dare." She warns while pointing a finger at me. Her eyes are hostile and find it rather concerning that I am scared of what she may do to me. "I'm here to fuck you. That's what you've paid me for." Which was completely true, as I had already made the transaction with the agency over the phone while I booked the appointment. Which I regret, now. Alas, I admire the way Andrea's plump breasts shake as she fumbles with the zipper of my trousers. "There's no point in wasting precious time with little chit-chat and catch-up and pretending as if you actually give a damn about anyone other than yourself." My heart sinks.

"Andrea..."

"No!" She growls as she pulls my one-of-a-kind white Donna Karan trousers off completely and discards them on the floor. I am about to protest but the glare Andrea gives me stops me and I sink back down into my awkwardly seated position on the bed.

"I'm so sorry, Andrea." I whisper, and for a moment I wonder if she even heard me. She hooks her fingers into the sides of my underwear and nods as she looks at me intently.

"What exactly are you sorry for?" She asks sweetly as she starts to drag the piece of fabric away from my pelvis. She tilts her head to the side as a long strand of dark hair falls to the side of her face. I ache to reach out and tuck it behind her ear. I open my mouth to speak, to apologise for my cruelty towards her, but words fail me completely.

Andrea scoffs slightly and shakes her head. Now my underwear is down around my ankles and the tears in my eyes well up again as she places her hands on my knees and slowly pushes my legs apart.

"You got away."

Her eyes found mine once again and she looked at me inquisitively. Her hands fell from my legs; evidently she would not continue her ministrations unless I explained myself.

"You left me. You turned you back on me." I can tell my voice is barely audible and I choke on my last words as the tears now run freely down my face.

"And whose fault is that." Andrea spat bitterly as she slowly ran the palms of her hands up my calf muscles.

"Can I have a glass of water?"

Bewildered, she rose and rested herself on bent elbows and regarded me curiously. Perhaps she was wondering if I would try to escape from my restraints, which, in reality, would be completely impossible. Andrea lets her hands slide up and down my legs once more before she stands and walks over to the bar fridge on the other side of the room. She gets a glass and a bottle of water and pours a substantial amount. She walks back over towards me and climbs onto the bed. Straddling me, Andrea takes a sip and then tips the glass, pouring the remaining water down her lingerie-clad body.

"Drink up." She orders with a menacing tone in her otherwise sickly-sweet voice. Hesitant for a mere nanosecond, I once again find myself scared of what she might do to me if I disobey her. I start at her belly button and trail my tongue up to the lacy undergarment that encases her breasts. I nuzzle the material with my nose until I reach the soft pillowy flesh and gather every droplet of water there. I moan as I feel her hands running through my hair and her fingers grip like a vice on my scalp. She starts gyrating her hips on my thigh and I can feel moisture beginning to pool between my legs. The very thought of being the reason this beautiful young woman reaches climax is enough to undo me.

"Please, Andrea."

"Mmm, what?" She hums as he gyrating increases.

"Please come back. Let me take care of you."

Her hips still. Her fingers unlace themselves from my hair and she looks at me. The same look as before. Hatred. Her palm collides with my face and the stinging pain in my cheek is just another sensation that distracts me from the fact that my arms have grown numb while still handcuffed to bedposts.

"I don't need you." She slaps me again and I feel concerned as further moisture gathers between my thighs. "I don't need you!" She slaps me again.

"Andrea, plea-"

"No!" My cheek burns as she delivers the fourth slap. "You think you can take care of me? You think if you take me off of your blacklist, I won't be a whore? Who the fuck in their right mind, in _your_ profession, in the line of work that I am _fully qualified_ in, would even hire a whore?"

"There are plenty of laws currently in place that prevent-"

"That's not my fucking point, Miranda! You did this! I don't need you to fix me. I don't need your money and your secret handshakes and all of that ridiculous jiving around." Andrea shifts from her straddling position and sits next to me on the bed, hanging her head in her hands. "You really think it would be that easy for me to trust you like that? For me to forgive you while you to treat me the way you treated Nigel?"

For a moment I forget that my hands are restrained and I lean closer to her, wanting to cup her tender face in my hands but the metal cuts through my skin and I retreat. "I would never do that to you."

"Nigel thought you'd never do that to him, either."

She has a good point, there. "I have since repaid him."

"How so?" Andrea coos sarcastically as she repositions herself so that her head is aligned with my ankles. She spreads my legs further once again, just as she did before, and trails her tongue slowly up my inner thigh.

"I retire from my current position at _Runway_ tomorrow."

Andrea's ministrations stop, and I feel curious eyes on me as my head lulls back and my neck stretches upwards toward the ceiling.

"Why?"

"Does it really matter?"

I shiver as I feel Andrea's plump, pillowy flesh on my inner thigh and that familiar sound of lips smacking. "This could be your chance to redeem yourself", she whispers as her tongue snakes out again and drags along he remaining length of my thigh until she reaches the inner junction where my leg and my pelvic bone meet.

"I can't do it anymore. I've grown...soft...in my old age and I-"

And then she licks me. Her warm, wet tongue presses against my hardened clitoris and I try in earnest to stifle the moan that escapes my mouth.

"Keep talking, Miranda." Andrea whispers as I can feel her nuzzle my pubic hair with her nose. "Mmm, you smell better than I thought you would."

"I just want to be happy."

Her nails dig into my thighs and pulls my legs further apart. "Are you happy now?"

No. I am completely and utterly miserable and I need to be released. Her hands stroke their way back to the most sensitive part of my body. Her delicate fingers spread me and she takes my bundle of nerves in to her mouth and hums as she licks me again. Guilt and lust consume me entirely and I am partly disgusted by the fact that Andrea is only rewarding my bad behaviour.  
My hips involuntarily buck towards Andrea's face as I feel her hot tongue slide into me. She caresses my inner walls and rubs a finger over my clitoris. I whimper as her penetrations cease. She replaces her tongue with her finger and vice versa, and her other hand holds me in place while my hips buck now uncontrollably, like a feral animal, in her delicate, angelic face.  
It suddenly dawns on me; a thought, a realization, a flaw I had momentarily forgotten when she asked me if I was happy. I stop thrusting my hips, and I look down at her and my heart breaks as I see her head bobbing up and down between my legs. It was never supposed to turn out this way.

She doesn't seem to take any notice as she only drives her fingers deeper into me and sucks a little harder on my clitoris, which is enough to undo me. The masochist in me derives pleasure from the pain of overwhelming guilt bottled up inside me and I feel every muscle in my body spasm involuntarily and my back arch, pushing my pelvis further into Andrea's face. She whispers words of encouragement as she twists her fingers deep while my juices run down her welcoming hand. I ride out my orgasm and I scream her name so loud that even I am shocked by the capacity of my aging lungs. The walls close in on me, and lethargy takes over as my lulls back against the headrest of the bed, and all I see is black.

* * *

The sound of rustling fabric awakens me. I stretch out on the bed and sigh as I realize that I am no longer chained to the bedposts. Shifting into a seating position, I see that the noise has come from Andrea, who is now standing by the door with her coat on.  
"Leaving so soon?"  
She turns around and faces me, her expression is forlorn and I can swear I can feel my heart break for the umpteenth time today. "Please, don't do this Miranda. There's no happy ending here. We are even now."  
"How can we be even when you're just going to leave me again?" I am once again shocked by how vulnerable and horribly fragile I sound.  
She strides back over and sits next to me on the bed. Taking my face in her hands, she leans in and kisses me. Her ample lips press desperately against mine and as I close my eyes all I can see stars. This must be what heaven feels like. Before I have time to retaliate, she is standing again and I feel myself grow numb as she is walking towards the door and leaves without another word or another glance in my direction.  
Are we even, now? Her situation suggests otherwise, but the guilty conscience that will weigh over me like the blackest cloud in the New York sky until my dying day proves that we are.  
And I will forever remember this day. I will remember her well, in the Chelsea Hotel.


End file.
